Dragon Age: A Malefaction of Fire
by Suffering Soldier
Summary: "Somewhere along the darkened road, he collapses- burned and bloodied. Between ragged breaths, he sobs. His heart swelling with agony and rage, he lifts his head and curses into the night, swearing vengeance." Duncan is called away from Highever, leaving the Couslands to face Howe's betrayal unaided, and a very different story begins as the Teryn's youngest escapes into the night.
1. Chapter 1

The Frozen Pint was a dreary, collapsing tavern erected on the Fereldan side of Gherlen's Pass a few months after the rebellion began and Orlesian troops began to flow through the area. Though there were no more passing soldiers thirsty for ale, most of its patrons were still travelers heading to or coming from Orlais, eager to escape the icy blasts that buffeted the rocky peaks and played with the building's loose boards. However, a haven from the driving winds or not, few remained by choice for more than a day or two. Every inch of the establishment was perpetually wet with snow melt and those inside were sporadically treated with gusts of bone-chilling air when the cold found a gap in the planks.

Accordingly, there was a collective shudder throughout the tavern as the door swung open to allow the elements in, prompting the travelers gathered inside to huddle deeper within their cloaks and edge closer to the hearth. A lone, young-looking man closed the door behind him as he entered and he paused to pull down his hood and survey the room.

He found a few suspicious stares from the other patrons but after a brief moment made for the bar, the slight rustle of armor coming from beneath his cloak as he walked. Using one gauntleted hand to scrub the frost from the patch of facial hair beneath his lip, he glanced to the bartender and mimed for a drink.

The portly man on the opposite side of the counter wiped his hands on his apron and disappeared in another direction, leaving Alistair alone with another patron who sat half-slumped over the bar.

The other man hadn't reacted to his presence in the slightest, even as the warden stood behind him at a distance he knew must be uncomfortably close. Alistair frowned—he hoped the man wasn't an inebriate, that would complicate things considerably. The stranger in question had ragged, dark-brown hair and wore a cloak that almost fell to the floor, though the former templar estimated him to stand a bit shorter than himself.

While Alistair mulled over his course of action, the man brought a tankard of ale to his lips and drained the pewter mug. Setting down the empty beverage, he gave a grunt.

"Are you just going to stand there, then?"

Alistair blinked. "You- uh, you know who I am?"

"No," the man stated without turning. "But you're looking for me, so that narrows it down."

The templar straightened and cleared his throat. "I am Alistair of the Grey Wardens. You met my commander several months ago."

He gave an affirmative nod. "Duncan."

A small smile creased the young warden's face. "You remember him, then?"

"I remember that he drank like a fish and that he didn't seem overly concerned about taking advantage of my father's hospitality."

"He's dead."

"A shame."

Alistair frowned deeply, but realized he couldn't tell if the man was being snide or sincere. With a sigh, he pinched the bridge of his nose. "I…_Ferelden_ needs your help."

"No."

The templar sighed. The Fereldan warden could count on one hand the people who had been cooperative with his efforts to save them all from the Blight, and he supposed it wouldn't make sense for that to change now. "I _could_ just conscript you, you know." He threatened irritably.

The seated man glanced over his shoulder, flashing a wolfish grin and piercing blue eyes. He gave Alistair a half-hearted shrug. "You could try."

The man shook his head slightly and turned to inspect his empty mug, apparently growing bored of the conversation. "Besides, isn't there a whole order of you people? You don't need someone like me."

There was a pause as the warden seemed to consider this for a moment before nodding. "You're right," Alistair conceded. "I _don't_ need someone like you. I need someone with integrity, and courage, and _skill_." The warden leaned in alongside the man conspiratorially, searching the stranger's visage for some semblance of cognition. "I need someone like the Clyde Cousland that Duncan saw so much promise in."

The scion of the Couslands met the templar's eye suddenly, his stoic expression blemished with the lines that pain and exhaustion had drawn upon his face. "I am not that man," he spoke slowly, "and it would serve you well to forget me."

Alistair withdrew, the moment of fleeting hope replaced with apparent disappointment and frustration. He hadn't followed the man's trail across half of Ferelden on a whim—he'd been the youngest competitor to ever win the King's Tournament, and Duncan had done everything short of strong-arming the teyrn to make the boy a Grey Warden. The templar gave a heavy sigh and shook his head. "So this is how you're going to restore your family's honor, then? Drinking yourself into a stupor in some frozen backwater?"

"To the void with their honor," Clyde interjected, "My family's dead."

The warden furrowed his brow. "What of your brother Fergus?"

The seated Cousland gave a dismissive shake of the head. "He's either dead or he's allowed himself to be cowed by the men who murdered our parents in cold blood. The forces of Highever share his fate." He turned on his stool to give Alistair a grim smile. "It pleases me to believe the former is the case.

"I believe, however, that the Maker has a plan in mind for everyone in this wretched little hole we call Thedas. I simply hope the one he has for me ends with my hands wrapped around Howe's throat."

"And that's going to restore the Couslands?" Alistair queried, "Killing Arl Howe?"

"No," Clyde admitted with a frown, "but it's a start."

There was a pregnant pause, giving Alistair a moment to look around and irritably realize that the tavern keeper had never returned with his ale, and at the moment the warden felt himself to be badly in need of a drink.

That was to say that he had an idea—a decidedly bad one.

Taking a final deep breath, he turned once more to the haggard Cousland sitting at the bar. "If I help you kill Howe, will you help me defeat the Blight?"

There was a moment of silence as Clyde regarded him with suspicion. "You're going to help me kill Howe?" He questioned, sounding somewhat doubtful. Alistair supposed it was a good sign that the man hadn't immediately balked at what he had asked for in exchange.

"When the time comes, I'm going to help you kill Arl Howe." The warden responded, mustering a stern voice. It wasn't a lie, but it was a promise that he feared time might prove to be hollow.

What Howe had done to the Couslands and so many others was monstrous of course, but it paled in comparison to what would happen if the Darkspawn were allowed to march north unopposed. The Blight _had _to be stopped, no matter how many deals that required be made or broken.

Clyde immediately rose to his feet, the whirling of his cloak revealing the hilt of a longsword sheathed deep within its furrows. Turning to the warden, he searched the man's face, his eyes narrowed and suspicious. Alistair shifted under his gaze but met his eye, getting his first good look at the man he'd been seeking for nearly three months.

The nobleman looked thoroughly disheveled; greasy bangs hung nearly to his eyebrows and what had looked to once be a small, neatly-groomed beard had been allowed to grow out of control. Yet, behind his unkempt appearance, his eyes still blazed with the flames of a heart burning for retribution.

The young Cousland offered a hand without breaking his flinty stare. "I have your word?"

Alistair was careful not to hesitate and firmly took the man's hand. "You have my word."

Clyde gave a grim nod as he released the warden's hand. Dropping a few coppers on the bar, he gestured for the door. "Head outside. I'll gather my effects and meet you there."

"Right," Alistair affirmed, "I'll—uh, be out there, then." Lingering a moment more to watch the other warrior disappear into one of the tavern's rented rooms, the warden tightened his cloak and stepped back into the blustering winds of the Frostback Mountains.

Walking to a spot where an alcove provided some protection from the wind, the templar found Sten waiting there. The qunari, apparently unbothered by the cold, wore his massive cloak loosely about his shoulders and regarded Alistair with his typical tone of mild annoyance.

"Where is the human we have wasted so much time seeking?"

Alistair glanced to the imposing warrior and gave a small shrug. "He's inside, getting his things. He said he'd meet us out here."

The news didn't seem to impress the qunari who scrutinized the warden. "You let him out of your sight that he might make good his escape or fetch a weapon?"

The Grey Warden fell silent for a moment. Clyde hadn't exactly seemed thrilled by his arrival, but he thought they'd reached an understanding with one another. He wouldn't run. Alistair was almost sure of it. "I hadn't put much thought into it, actually."

Sten gave a strained utterance, the noise somewhere between an angry growl and a frustrated sigh. "That much was apparent."

"No, I mean he wants to help—well, not really I suppose, but he will."

Alistair braced himself for the lumbering warrior's rebuttal, but was met only silence, the qunari having apparently spoken his piece.

Pulling his hood up to protect his ears from the nipping frost, Alistair folded his arms and waited, quietly humming a jaunty tune to distract himself from the cold. A minute or so more passed before he heard the sound of crunching snow draw near.

Clyde Cousland appeared wearing a pack strung across his shoulder and a large, iron-rimmed shield that battered against it as he walked. Through the gap in his cloak, Alistair saw that he now wore a battered steel breastplate bearing the heraldic device of Highever over a burnished shirt of chainmail.

Adjusting how the bag sat upon his back, the haggard warrior glanced at the qunari before looking to Alistair. "It's just the three of us, then?"

"No," the warden reported, "We've got a camp farther down the mountain, but it's a bit of a walk."

"Let's get moving, then."

* * *

The camp, half a dozen or so tents strewn throughout a stand of pine trees, was hardly anything to be awed about, but it boasted a blazing campfire and a cluster of boulders that ran along the camp's flank in the shape of a hook, making it a fairly defensible position. However a quick glance upward brought to Clyde's attention a considerable amount of deadfall hanging precariously from the canopy overhead, and the young warrior concluded it had either been overlooked or ignored.

Alistair had pointed him to a suitable spot to pitch his tent and informed him of a small stream nearby before hurrying in the direction of the large pot that hung over the fire. Similarly, Sten, the massive qunari he'd encountered outside the tavern, had walked away without a word, leaving the human warrior alone on the edge of camp looking in.

Near the firepit where Alistair was using a ladle to eagerly fill a wooden bowl with steaming broth, a woman sat within the depths of a heavy fur blanket, her short hair the same color as the flickering wisps of fire that she watched boredly as she lightly stroked the mabari that lay along her side.

At a glance the hound appeared to be dozing, but upon closer inspection Clyde found it to be watching him with a wary eye. The warrior gave an amused snort and unslung the pack from his shoulder. As fiercely loyal and friendly as they could be, mabari were exceedingly suspicious and standoffish toward strangers, which he supposed made them even more intelligent than most people gave them credit for.

The young Cousland gave a grunt as he stretched, relieved to be rid of the weight of his pack and shield. Finding Alistair having a meal with the woman near the fire, a frown wrinkled the Clyde's face. In earnest, he wasn't sure what to think as of yet—either the Grey Warden with broth presently running down his chin was going to somehow help him deal with Howe or the youngest Cousland would find his own way. Clyde had spent three long months stewing in impotent rage in that frozen tavern, but he now took satisfaction in knowing that he was at long last making progress once again. There would come a day when Howe met his reckoning at the end of a sword, but that day needn't be tomorrow.

Pawing at the scraggly growth upon his chin, the warrior reminded himself that there was still much to be done before nightfall. Lifting his pack from the snow, he looped one of the straps over his shoulder and set about pitching his tent.


	2. Chapter 2

True to Alistair's word, Clyde found a small brook a stone's throw from the camp that ran knee-deep with frigid, glassy-clear water. Clyde kneeled on the bank of the trickling glacial stream, stripped to the waist as he used a short steel razor to cut away weeks of neglected facial hair until only a short, rounded beard remained.

Only about an hour had passed since he had first arrived at camp, but Clyde had already pitched his tent and stowed his effects inside. Now he was hurriedly taking care of a few things before the waning light restricted him to places closer to the bonfire. Night was quickly gathering at the party's alpine camp and the young Cousland savored the refreshing prickle of the chilly air on his skin. Back in the heart of the camp, Alistair was reading by the fire's orange light, though the redheaded woman had apparently retired to her tent.

Bowing his head over the stream, he used one hand to shake the trimmings from his dark-brown hair before doing the same to his beard. His haircut had been rather inexpertly done and was a bit lopsided in places, but it was still a marked improvement over the tangled mop it had been. Satisfied, if not entirely happy with his work, Clyde washed the carefully honed blade in the water before wiping it and securing it in its fitted wooden sheath. Setting it aside, the young warrior gingerly set about unwinding the long bandage that ran across his chest and over his right shoulder. The long strip of cloth, ragged from use and stained in spots, stuck fast against his skin and he cringed at the sound of it peeling away. Gathering up the dressing in a loose ball, he immersed it in the freezing brook and washed it. Wringing out the worn bandage, he laid it across his shoulder to keep it out of the grass soggy with ice and snow melt.

He clutched at his upper right arm and winced slightly, the skin still tender and faintly pink in spots. All the same though, he ran his fingertips across the roughly textured flesh, examining the gradually mending scars where he'd been scorched and blistered beneath the burning mass of a fallen beam. The very thought of his narrow escape filled his nostrils with the putrid smell of charred meat. Now, the limb served as a doubly painful reminder about the fate of his home every time he put on his armor or tossed in his sleep.

Rising to hang the damp bandage on the branch where he'd draped his shirt, Clyde was alarmed to spot a pair of eyes watching him from the shadow of a tree trunk. He retreated half a step, setting his feet and bracing himself with practice reflex. His darting eyes searching for his weapon, he spotted its sheathed form braced against the trunk of a tree a few paces beyond his reach and gave a low curse.

However, the unannounced observer made no attack. "Well," the stranger remarked, her voice tinged with amusement, "I take it you are our newest addition, then?"

"I don't believe we're acquainted," Clyde responded tersely, not slackening in the slightest.

The woman stepped from the shadows, revealing a slender, darkly-clad form. Her hair, black as the darkness, was pulled back into a simple bun, but her catlike amber eyes seemed to glow in the waning light. "I am Morrigan." She introduced herself, the small smile on her lips more predatory than genial. The patch of icy snow beneath her high black boots crunched as she shifted from foot to foot and she wore a plain, if somewhat tattered-looking black skirt with a large, pouched belt that was looped loosely around her waist. However what one might fancifully call her "robe" seemed to consist of little more than a long swath of burgundy cloth draped over her breasts amidst a web of necklaces and assorted cordage, and between her open garment and the cold, there was little left to the imagination.

"The wound upon your shoulder," the dark-clad woman prefaced, sounding more intrigued than concerned. "T'does not appear well-mended."

He didn't doubt her words. A sizeable piece of flesh on his shoulder blade had been scorched away, and the spot was numb and covered with a stiff scab that occasionally bled at the edges. All the same however, it didn't impede his ability to swing a sword and hadn't festered, so he was content to leave it alone. He returned a mirthless smile, his lips flattened against one another in a manner that could help but display his disdain for the woman's rather intrusive probing. "It'll heal in time."

Hearing this, the woman abruptly turned to left in the direction of a lone tent and watchfire on the fringes of the camp. After a long moment he suddenly felt a prick of ire and called after her. "Did you come all this way to spy on me, then?"

Clyde wasn't particular sure why he felt the need to say such a thing, nor why his tone held such a snide edge to it. It was an unwarranted jab—childish, even.

The woman paused to glare back at him for a moment, the dark line of her creased brow visible amongst the shadows. "Hardly." She spat before continuing toward her tent, the sound of crunching snow following her as she departed.

Instantly, the young lord felt deflated—robbed of the quarrel he'd perhaps been unconsciously hoping for. Watching the woman's retreating silhouette until it disappeared back into the darkness, he picked up the bandage from where he'd dropped it in the shallow snow and shoved the damp wad into his pocket.

A shiver prickling at the fine hairs on his bare torso, he retrieved his heavy woolen shirt from the low branch where he'd hung it. As he pulled it on, he realized with a grimace that the garment reeked of the musky tavern.

Grabbing his sword and hitching it to his belt, he patted down his pockets to ensure he still had his razor before making his way back to the campfire.

As he neared, Alistair rose from his spot by the fire, closing the book he'd been reading with a heavy _thud_ and setting aside the wooden dish that had been sitting in his lap. "I see you've met Morrigan," The templar observed, obviously possessing some notion of how the conversation had gone.

"Indeed," Clyde said rather gravely, his irritated frown speaking for itself.

For a few minutes no more words were spoken, and the two men simply stood watching the fire. For his part, Alistair looked tired and rather bored, but Clyde stood with his bare forearms crossed over one another, staring into the blaze with fixation, as if the dancing flames were a conjuring of his mind.

His gaze following a glowing ember as it climbed an updraft, the spell upon him seemed to break as it flickered out.

"I'll take first watch." He announced spying the moon climbing above the distant peaks.

Turning to Alistair to ensure he'd been heard, the warden nodded to him. "Alright. Just, wake up me in a few hours, I guess."

Clyde watched him disappear into his tent and then turned back to the fire.

He was glad to be alone.

It was strange, really. He'd spent so much time in that tavern—so much time utterly alone in a crowded room, that the concept of companionship seemed more alien to him than isolation. It was odd how the events of a few months could make a person forget what it was like to live a normal life.

His chest rising as he inhaled deeply, the young swordsman blew a cloud of billowing vapor out through his nose with an air of satisfaction at the act.

Clyde didn't mind the chill—in fact, he found it rather bracing. It reminded him of nights spent atop the ramparts of Castle Cousland in the late autumn when the wind from the north was cold and carried with it the smell of the ocean.

The thought of home brought a sudden pause to his reminiscing.

Even after so many weeks it seemed inconceivable that it was all gone.

He still heard Oren's laughter amidst the throngs of children that ran the streets. In crowds, he caught glimpses of familiar faces that vanished when he searched for them. At times even the echo of footsteps upon stone seemed too painfully familiar.

He tried for a long moment to imagine what the castle might look like as a heap of crumbled stone and splintered timber, but his mind revolted at the thought and he found himself instead picturing the keep in the early morning, its walls of buttressed granite and proud cobalt banner radiant in the gentle light of the dawn.

It seemed a particular cruelty, really.

If his world had been one of ceaseless pain for the last three months, Clyde perhaps could've resigned himself to some state of numbness, but it hadn't. Instead, his sorrow was interrupted with reminiscence, so that his reality might be all that more bitter when he returned to it.

A gust of icy wind howled through the camp and stirred the young warrior from his thoughts and he briskly went to his tent to fetch his cloak. Draping the heavy woolen garment around himself, he rested a hand on the sword at his waist and, returning to the fire, began to place a small circle around it.

Clyde was a man given to pacing.

He'd spent countless hours strolling atop the walls of Castle Cousland, treading the battlements in a great circuit with an air of leisure about him. There, looking out into the blanket of the night, the young man's mind found a special sort of serenity.

But those had been happier times and now the night, with its mysteries, seemed to him more sinister than it once had.

His mechanical patrol around the campfire was interrupted as his boot met something hard. Halting, he found a cast iron cooking pot tucked amidst the rocks that encircled the fire and stooped to inspect it.

Inside he found a moderate portion of the clouded amber broth he'd seen being prepared earlier, and a mass of pleasing steam rose into his face when he removed the lid. At the smell his stomach tightened as he realized he couldn't recall when he had last eaten, and he quickly found a wooden bowl nearby and filled to the brim with the golden broth.

Situating himself atop a section of a log that had been pulled close to the fire for just such a purpose, he lifted to bowl to his lips and was lost in thought once again, though it didn't escape his notice that the soup was badly in need of some salt. Listening to the wind as it howled across the distant peaks, Clyde stared vacantly into the fire as he quietly supped.

Oren's name emerged from the turbulent squall of his mind, like a stone spilled from a sack as it was shaken, and he spent a few moments sketching the lines of the young boy's face in his imagination. He was a sweet boy, with his father's crooked smile and a small, rounded face that could be most endearing when he wanted it to.

His nephew had always been enamored with the Grey Wardens. Even if he had never seen one, the ten-year-old sat with sparkling eyes when his uncle recounted tales of the noble warriors of the grey as they set off on quests to defeat bandits or slay dragons.

These were of course amended versions of the same bedtime stories that Clyde's father had tucked him and Fergus in with, but Clyde had taken some liberties with them and his nephew was none the wiser.

All the same however, as much as these tales thrilled him, Oren had never cared to know the history of the Grey Wardens. He found the few texts in the castle's library about them to be rather boring, and hadn't even wanted to hear about the Siege of Nordbotten, when an army of Wardens atop griffons had routed the Darkspawn and claimed the first decisive human victory against the Blight.

Instead, he'd wanted to hear a tales about lone Wardens—solitary warriors in shining silver who traveled from place to place by horseback, righting wrongs and searching for adventure.

In the young boy's eyes, these men and women were the embodiment of all mortal virtue—the resolute vanguard of dwarves, elves, and humans who had pledged themselves to the darkened depths of the Deep Roads. Whereas most recognized the grim and tremendous burden the order shouldered, young Oren saw it as a glorious quest.

They were knights errant, whose steadfast swords and invincible will could conquer any foe. They stood vigilant on the fringes of the world, prepared to drive back anything that emerged from the shadows. To him, the thought that evil could exist in the same world as heroes such as these was foolish.

As Clyde told these tales, perhaps—in a small way, he too had come to believe them. From where he stood from atop the walls of Castle Cousland, perhaps he too had closed his eyes and allowed himself to believe that the world was just and filled with storybook heroes.

And perhaps that was why he'd been so unprepared for Howe's treachery.

The young lord quivered and pulled his cloak tightly around himself against an imagined breeze, pretending the image of Oren's bloodless face against the stone floor hadn't flashed through his mind.

Tossing aside the empty bowl that had been sitting in his lap, Clyde rose to his feet and searched for something to occupy his mind for the long hours of the night.


	3. Chapter 3

Leliana awoke before first light and quickly dressed in her tent, quietly humming the chorus of an airy Andrastian hymn as she did. Her time in Lothering had made her accustomed to rising early. As a lay sister, she had grown used to waking before the chanters and priestesses to light candles and burn incense inside the Chantry so that everything was prepared for when the first of the locals arrived at the crack of dawn for their blessing.

Pushing aside the flap of her tent, she was greeted by the cold morning air and the glow of the predawn sky as the first hints of sunrise peeked over the horizon in brilliant oranges and pinks. The great, towering peaks of the Frostbacks certainly had an air of majesty about them, but the more Leliana looked on the more she found that she preferred the chittering birds and sleepy homesteads of dawn in the Bannards.

The canvas of the tent was etched with the white runes of the creeping frost and the icy snow crackled underfoot as she proceeded to the campfire, her arms folded beneath her cloak as she walked.

Someone else sat at the fire, similarly enshrouded in a drab colored cloak. Atop the bed of glowing coals, flames licked at the edges of fresh logs and as Leliana drew near, she imagined she might find Alistair on his watch.

To her surprise, an unfamiliar face dozed beneath the cowl, the man's stern face pale and his trimmed beard white with frost.

It took a moment for the Orlesian sister to recognize him as the man that had returned with Alistair the prior evening and she faintly recalled the Warden telling her about him, though the finer details escaped her now.

Laying a gentle hand the slumbering lookout's shoulder, she felt the flesh beneath suddenly tense at her touch.

The man jerked awake with an alarmed gasp and by reflex went immediately for the sword at his hip. With the blade a third of the way from its sheathe, he turned on his seat and with bleary eyes found Leliana. The bard, unprepared for his reaction, had retreated a short distance. Spotting her, Clyde slackened.

Slipping his sword back into its leather housing, a sigh slipped from between his lips, heavy with relief and mild exasperation. Taking a moment to compose himself and scrub the exhaustion from his stiff eyelids, he rose gingerly from his seat.

"My apologies," He offered in a low, sincere voice.

The man had quite apparently taken some care with his appearance since she'd last seen him. His cheeks and chin were now clean-shaven with the exception of a small, tidy beard and his dark brown hair no longer hung across his brow. Still, his eyes wore dark rims and despite his outward appearance of alertness, experience told Leliana that she had stirred him from a restless sleep.

The bard smiled softly. "Actually, I should be apologizing. I hadn't meant to startle you. I had actually expected to find Alistair out here." She took a moment to survey the sleeping camp. If he hadn't been woken for his watch, Leliana had no doubt the warden was still dozing in his tent.

The man before her looked to the glow of the dawning sun, apparently trying to judge the hour.

"I don't believe we've been properly introduced," the lay sister began as he turned his attention to her. "I am Leliana."

The man gave a dry smile. "A pleasure to meet you, Leliana. I'm Clyde."

The bard wasn't surprised that he said so little. If Alistair's passing comments about the warrior held any merit then he was undoubtedly a reluctant participant in their mission against the Blight. It was apparent enough then that he had ulterior motives for staying.

He'd said next to nothing lest he betray himself, but had revealed more than he intended to all the same. It was in his mannerism—the way he didn't slouch even when at ease and the smile he'd given her—the practiced, unemotive façade of the nobility.

He was a lord then, perhaps?

Yet there was more than that. His right palm bore the rough calluses from a sword's grip and as he glanced back to the horizon the Chantry lay sister's scrutinizing gaze found faint scars across the left side of his jaw and near his cheekbone. The marks were old and had healed, but he wore them well nonetheless.

It seemed likely he was knight—accustomed with both the hardships of soldiering and the delicacies of politicking. It was an imperfect conclusion, Leliana realized, but for hints gleaned from an exchange of two minutes and a dozen words between them, it had its merits.

"I'm going to go see about breakfast." Clyde excused himself, spooling a length of cordage around his left hand as he scanned the woods around them. Checking the sword at his hip, he ambled into the trees followed by the squelch of snow underfoot as he went.

* * *

Alistair awoke to the aroma of cooked meat wafting into his tent, which he immediately recognized as either being good or else really, _really_ bad.

Still half-sleep, he kicked off his dark brown blanket and found his sword where he'd rolled it up in his knapsack for safe keeping. With one hand wrapped around the blade of the sheathed weapon, he crawled on his hands and knees toward the opening of his tent, stifling a yawn as he did so.

Parting the flap a few inches to allow himself to observe the rest of the camp, he found several other members of the party gathered quietly around the fire pit.

Good. There was no need for him to charge out there in his smallclothes then.

Leaving his sword near the opening of his tent, the junior warden returned to his knapsack to get dressed.

Collecting his garments from where he'd scattered them in his haste the prior evening, he pulled his tunic on over his head and made quick work of the various buckles on his mail coat.

He spent a few moments searching for his boots and eventually found them sticking out from beneath his bedroll.

Quickly bundling up the bedroll, he grabbed his boots and pulled them on.

He then pulled them off again and, with an irritated grumble, put them on the correct feet.

Eventually he emerged from his tent, his cloak about his shoulders and his sword hanging at his hip. He wandered over to the fire where, to his delight, he found a pair of skinned rabbits hanging across the fire on wooden skewers.

"Good morning, Alistair." Lelianna greeted from where she sat opposite him, sounding far too awake for such an hour. Noticing his gaze fixed upon the roasting game, an amused smile crossed her lips. "Please, help yourself."

The warden did just that, cutting a healthy strip of meat from one of the rabbit's flank to accompany the helping of porridge he ladled out into a bowl. It was a welcome treat—their provisions since departing from Lothering had been mostly bread and cheese and since he wasn't much of a hunter himself, it was nice to have some fresh game without Morrigan's patronizing. Plopping down by the fire, he quickly popped the morsel into his mouth followed by a greedy spoonful of oatmeal.

Lelianna and Sten lounged around it as well, the latter sitting with his knees tucked into his chest and a dour look on his face. Unsurprisingly, Morrigan was nowhere to be found. A glance in the direction of her tent found that the small fire she kept there had died, leaving Alistair to wonder if she'd spent the night at camp at all. Perhaps she was off parading around as a mole or some such creature.

Clyde wasn't present either which, while still not surprising, was of a bit more concern to the junior warden. He hoped the fact he'd never been woken for his watch didn't mean that the Cousland had changed his mind and departed into the silence of the alpine night.

"He went out trapping, if that's what you're wondering." Alistair looked up from his meal to fix Lelianna with an alarmed look, his cheeks swollen with oatmeal. For such a sweet woman, she still managed to thoroughly scare him sometimes. "I think he's down by the stream at the moment."

"How did-" The warden began dumbly, drawing the faint line of a smirk across the bard's narrow lips. He shook his head and rose to his feet. "Never mind."

Leaving his bowl on the log where'd he been sitting, he trooped off in the direction of the brook.

He found Clyde along the creek bank sitting cross-legged with his longsword laid across his lap. The young man was honing his blade with a careful hand, pausing occasionally to test the edge with his thumb or wet the sharpening stone in the creek.

His mail shirt sat folded on a blanket beside him, scrubbed free of any tarnish and glimmering faintly in the late morning light.

Alistair paused a short distance away and leaned against a tree trunk, listening to the rasp of the blade against the whetstone. Waiting until Clyde paused to wet it in the stream, Alistair spoke.

"So, I—" He was interrupted by the grating sound of steel being dragged across stone as the young warrior returned to his task without acknowledging him.

The warden heaved a sigh but said nothing, instead opting to wait. It was apparent enough that Clyde thought fairly little of him and frankly Alistair could care less, but outright snubbing him wasn't going to make anything easier going forward.

Clyde continued to work for a few minutes more but, aware that the templar was still standing there, he eventually set the whetstone aside, though Alistair would've sworn he heard an irritated grumble.

Wiping down the blade with an oiled rag, he returned it to the confines of its scabbard and set it on top of his armor. Without rising he looked over his shoulder to the warden. "Lelianna tells me we're heading to Orzammar."

Alistair gave a nod. "Yes. We'll leave without the hour."

"Very well."

With that he climbed to his feet and gathered his effects, pointedly denying Alistair any further opportunity to speak.

As the warden watched him hitch his sword to his belt, he bit back a remark about the man's attitude. This wasn't the time, he knew. At least he feigned cordiality, which was more than could be said about Morrigan, and for now he wouldn't ask any more of the man.

* * *

The road to Orzammar proved to be no more hospitable than the rest of the Frostbacks.

Icy, ankle-deep snow and blustering winds turned what should've been a few hours of travel from Gherlen's Pass to Orzammar into a miserable trek that would take most of the day. The party traversed the Imperial Highway wrapped tightly within their cloaks with the exception of Dog, who, apparently unbothered by the weather, would occasionally bolt into the undergrowth before returning to Lelianna's side.

Clyde led the group, some distance ahead of the others who followed behind Alistair in a rough line.

"I really _should _thank my mother for allowing me to accompany you. I'd have _never _had the opportunity to be killed by an avalanche in the Wilds." Morrigan complained from the rear, digging into the snow with her staff as she walked.

"You know, I'd forgotten how much easier everything becomes when you whine. Please, do continue!" Alistair called back, a deep frown on his face. "Why don't you make yourself useful and turn into a horse or something?"

"Were it worth the effort, I would turn into a _bear_." The witch retorted with a venomous smile. "Then we should see who is whining."

Alistair shook his head and turning his attention forward once more he found Clyde walking back toward the rest of the group, squinting into the blustering wind as he went.

The warden's brow furrowed. "What is it?"

"Fresh tracks on the road ahead." The warrior stated plainly, one hand resting on the grip of his sword. He gave a shrug. "Maybe nothing, maybe an ambush."

Alistair's face scrunched up as he surveyed the road ahead and the others came to a halt behind him. He glanced back to the young Cousland. "What do you think?"

"A dozen footpads, perhaps. If they're smart they'll let an armed party pass."

"And if they don't?"

Clyde gave the weapon at his hip a meaningful tap. He seemed mostly unconcerned, but Alistair was wary of strolling into an ambush just the same. The warrior seemed to pick up on the templar's hesitance. "They haven't spotted us yet. It's not too late to avoid it."

Avoiding it would mean doubling back and spending hours cutting through the rough terrain on a secondary trail. They were on schedule to arrive at Orzammar in the early evening as is, and Alistair didn't trust that the temperamental alpine weather would hold. He didn't want to spend another night in the mountains if he could avoid it. He gestured up the road. "Lead on."

As they continued, Alistair found more evidence of disturbances along the highway. Deep footprints in the snow led toward a ridge that ran parallel to the road. An overturned wagon sat buried in a snowbank beside the highway. A faintly smoking campfire that had had snow hastily kicked over it sat in a small clearing. By the time a man sporting an unkempt beard and ragged cloak appeared in the road ahead of them, the warden was hardly surprised.

The highwayman flashed a blackened smile, a metal-capped cudgel hidden poorly inside his cloak. Removing his frayed brown cap with a stained, frostbitten hand, he gave an extravagant bow. "Greetings, travelers! There's a tax on this highway," The thug glanced to the side, betraying the men that waited in ambush behind a stony outcrop. "For the maintenance of the road, you see!"

"Well they're not doing a very good job," Alistair murmured, examining the crumbling cobblestone avenue.

"Stand aside, whelp." Clyde challenged, taking several steps toward the man. "I pay my tolls in steel."

It concerned Alistair that the man's smile didn't vanish. Instead it tightened into a vicious grin. "Have it your way."

The robber went for his weapon and rushed toward Clyde, the weapon held high over his head as the warrior pulled his own sword with dissonant calmness. He met the footpad's clumsy blow with a parry and momentum carried the unfortunate thug into his counter, and he split the man's side with his blade as more outlaws swarmed from the underbrush along the highway. The bandit gave a stunned shudder and fell to his knees, blood pouring between his fingers as he clutched the wound.

Clyde turned from the incapacitated man and regarded the rapidly closing ring of outlaws with a contemptuous expression. In one fluid motion he unfastened his cloak and unslung his rucksack from his shoulder before letting them fall at his feet. Stooping to retrieve his shield from where it sat bound to his pack he slipped it onto his arm as another robber raced to meet him.

Alistair moved to assist him but was halted as a pair of bandits appeared from the underbrush in front of him. The two, clothed in ragged tunics and clutching battered swords in their bony fingers, stalked toward him. The warden brought his shield up to his chest, the silver heater shield angled slightly downward as his sword waited low by his hip, prepared to exploit any lapse in his opponent's defense.

The thugs attacked in tandem, each circling toward one side to force the templar to expose himself. Alistair offered his shield to the first, deflecting the heavy blow of a falchion but was forced to use his blade to quickly turn away a short sword as the second thrust for his ribs.

He retreated a step and braced himself to block another attack when there was the hiss of an arrow zipping past him and burying itself in the second robber's chest, and for a moment both Alistair and the remaining footpad paused to gape. Fortunately the warden recovered from his surprise first and lunged forward, quickly defeating the bandit with a stab to the stomach.

Withdrawing his blade, the man collapsed in a heap, granting the warden a moment's reprieve. Glancing over his shoulder, he threw a grateful salute in Lelianna's direction. The bard stood a ways back along the road, her bow in one hand and a bloodied dagger in the other. The short-lived din of steel against steel had waned and again the only sound was the wind stirring the trees. Spotting Sten and Morrigan approaching without any signs of injury, Alistair turned his attention up the road where he'd last Clyde.

The warrior remained, clutching his sword and shield as he stood breathless, his chest heaving beneath his mail shirt. The fallen bodies of half a dozen bandits formed rough circle around him. Wiping away the sweat the clung to his brow with the back of his hand he inadvertently painted a long smear of gore from his bloody gauntlet across his forehead. Tucking his shield under one arm, he stooped and plucked one of the thug's cloaks from the snow.

As Alistair trudged through the snow toward him he used the garment to wipe blood from the blade of his longsword before tossing it aside. Sheathing his weapon as the Alistair approached, he gave the warden his attention.

"You alright?" The party leader asked, appraising him with an expression of concern and mild disgust.

Clyde gave a casual shrug, unfazed by the considerable amount of gore clinging to his person. "Nothing that won't wash off."

In addition to the smear of blood he had transferred to his forehead from his vambrace, sections of his chainmail tunic was stuck to itself with drying blood and the iron rim of his shield was splashed with fresh crimson in several places.

Slinging his shield across his back, he drew the long, slim dirk that hung on his belt and began casually working his way through the cluster of fallen highwaymen, stooping occasionally to collect their coin purses with his free hand as the rest of the party began to catch up.

Alistair shook his head at the sight of the dead bandits. Typically such outlaws prowled the southern reaches of the Bannorn, where the minor lords ignored them or else lacked the resources to hunt them. "I'm surprised they'd come so far north especially this close to the pass."

"They're trailing the refugees," Clyde replied, stepping over a corpse. "Without the crown's patrols to monitor the roads there's little to stop them."

As he spoke he fell to one knee beside one of the bodies. The thug tenuously clung to life—the straining rise and fall of his chest just enough to disturb the fabric of his tunic. A wide slash across his belly continued to stain the powdery snow dark red—given time, the wound would be fatal.

Leveling his knife near the man's side, Cousland drove the thin dagger between the man's ribs before quickly pulling it out, splashing the knees of pants with fresh blood.

Alistair watched the man's breathing still with a disapproving look. "Was that really necessary?"

"Preferable to being left to the wolves or the weather." The noble answered nonchalantly. Using the bloodied knife, he cut the strings of the thug's purse and lightly shook the sack, producing the jingle of a few coins bouncing around inside. He tossed the purse coin to the warden. "Besides, he intended no better for us."

Wiping the blade on the dead man's tunic, he retrieved his kit and fell in with the others as they passed. Alistair lingered for a moment, glancing around at the dead before casting a foul look after the retreating form of the youngest Cousland and trudging through the snow after him.


	4. Chapter 4

It had been several more hours of trekking along the snow covered highway before the great stone carvings of Orzammar had appeared in the distance, followed shortly by the arching entrance to the city cut into the mountainside and the sprawling bazaar of merchants hawking their wares outside the gate.

Alistair had showed the Grey Warden's seal on the treaties to the dwarven captain at the gate which, to his great surprise, had seen them promptly let inside and given an audience with the Steward of the Assembly. The dwarven noble—Bandelor, Alistair believed his name was—had candidly informed the warden that with no one on the throne and the Assembly deadlocked the Grey Wardens weren't likely to see support from Orzammar any time soon. He would, however, be happy to provide the party with lodgings for the duration of their stay.

Two for three wasn't bad, Alistair supposed.

Their accommodations, an emptied estate that had once belonged to one of the city's noble families, were actually much nicer than the former templar had dared hope. The group established themselves in what he had imagined what once the dining hall and made a small cooking fire in the fireplace. The estate—dozens of dusty corridors and locked rooms—was far larger than the party had any use for, though Morrigan had quickly vanished after they'd arrived and Clyde had unfurled his sleeping roll in a corner of the room and deposited his pack before disappearing under the pretense of searching for the larder.

Alistair took a seat in front of the fire, opening a thick book and laying it down in his lap. The book, braced with pitted iron fittings and bound in cracking brown leather bore the Grey Warden's seal on its cover. It was perhaps the only vaguely complimentary thing Alistair could say about Morrigan that her mother had recovered Duncan's journal from Ostagar. It was the only thing Alistair had left of his mentor and, by the old witch's soothsaying, he would have need of it in the days to come.

Within its well-thumbed pages were the secrets of their order—the blackest whisperings of the Wardens since the Blights began. From the Joining to the Calling, the life and duty of the Grey Wardens was bound upon its pages in black ink. But it also held Duncan's personal thoughts—the day-to-day musings about the state of things and the grumblings about the poor weather. It seemed an odd memento, but the words gave Alistair some measure of comfort as he read them in camp by the fire's light.

The journal was a burden to carry, of course. It took up a considerable amount of space in his pack and its pointed corners and hard fittings always managed to dig into the junior warden's back as he walked, no matter how he stowed it. On top of that, it was heavy enough to bludgeon darkspawn with and, judging by the fading black stains along its spine, had been used to do just that on a few occasions.

Flipping through until he found the dark red ribbon that marked his page, Alistair read the entry. It was dated a few months ago and discussed the darkspawn with clear concern. There had been several raids on hamlets in the south and, though the lords of the Bannorn were quick to dismiss it as banditry, Duncan saw the telltale signs of darkspawn attacks. The warden commander lamented the lack of Ferelden wardens and resolved to contact the dwarves at Orzammar and to scout the Deep Roads. If there were indeed a Blight on the horizon, he feared, there wouldn't be enough Grey Wardens to prevent it from spreading beyond Fereldan.

"Alistair," Lelianna called from where she was settling into her bedroll. Nearby, Dog was circling atop the dusty rug by the fire. "You should get some rest. There'll be a lot to do tomorrow."

Alistair nodded, marking his page with the tattered ribbon and closing the book. Kicking off his boots and rolling under his blanket, the warden allowed the fatigue of the day's trek to wash over him and was soon fast asleep.

* * *

Waking up underground had felt strange to Clyde. He was accustomed to the natural light of the dawn flooding in through windows or, at very least, the ambient brightness of the sky on cloudy days. Rising to the thick shadows of the hushed estate felt wrong—as if he had slipped into a waking dream. Still, it was the first time in months he had woken up dry and warm.

He'd been told it was fairly early, but he hadn't been the first up. Lelianna had set off for the market with Alistair's purse to restock the party's provisions while he prepared breakfast. The aforementioned warden asleep, sprawled out on his bedroll with his arms and legs dangling onto the floor. Morrigan had returned in the night to settle in a far corner of the large room, and he presumed the pale witch was somewhere in the mound of patched blankets.

He sat on his haunches by the fireplace stirring a pot of barley porridge with a wooden spoon while an iron kettle heated up over the fire. The party's supplies were dwindling from the long trek from Redcliffe north to the Frostbacks and so their meals had been rather spartan.

Still, the smell of the cooking oatmeal and the warmth of the glowing hearth on his face was fondly reminiscent of the mornings at Castle Cousland when he had been a boy. Clyde and his older brother would go dashing out of the fortress at the crack of dawn to return with fresh eggs from the coop. They'd bring them back to Nan and would help her prepare breakfast for the family. Long before they were being taught the intricacies of the court or instructed upon the art of war, the young Cousland boys had been shown how to bake bread and fry eggs by their nanny.

"Stop that," Clyde chided, pushing away Dog as he probed at the pot of oatmeal. "You'll get yours when it's ready."

The mabari retreated and gave a disagreeable huff.

The warrior rolled his eyes. "Then make yourself useful and wake Alistair up." He said, waving the war hound away dismissively. Mabari were famous for their intelligence and loyalty, but they could be notoriously ornery when they were in the mood.

Dog gave a snort and made a show of settling down on the stone floor in front of the fire. If he wasn't going to get his food yet, then he certainly wasn't going to be of any utility in the meantime.

Clyde chuckled, turning to take the kettle off the fire as it began to whistle. "A merchant by the gate was selling cuts of druffalo—I saw a shank steak the size of my arm, all bloody and raw,"

The sizeable mastiff shot to its feet, giving a hearty bark.

"Well, get Alistair and we'll see."

At that, the hound spun and bolted toward where the warden slept in a blur of tan fur and flying drool. Mabari could be stubborn, Clyde conceded, but they were also easily tempted.

Stirring the cauldron of porridge, he heard a surprised cry from Alistair. However, when the scream turned into yelling, Clyde glanced over his shoulder in the warden's direction.

Dog had the templar fixed firmly by the leg of his pants and was gradually hauling him across the stone floor toward the fireplace, indifferent to Alistair's flailing and shouting as the fair-haired man held on to his trousers by the belt to prevent losing them all together.

Having dragged him a few paces from his bedroll, the mabari deposited the warden on the floor and dashed off, seeming quite satisfied with himself as he vanished into the darkened corridor.

Alistair quickly scrambled to his feet, muttering curses and scowling in the direction the where hound had disappeared as he dusted himself off. His most severe wound dealt to his pride, he returned to his sleeping area to put on his boots and proceeded to the hearth where Clyde was still crouching.

"Morning," the warden greeted dourly. Even without turning, the young noble could hear the scowl in his voice.

Clyde rose to his feet, struggling for a long moment to keep a neutral expression. Clamping his jaw, he felt his body tremor and face begin turning red as he smothered a laugh.

"Good morning," The youngest Cousland replied, though he was unable to conceal the smirk in his tone. Quickly turning back to the fire, he tried to conceal his expression when he could no longer contain the wide grin that spread across his lips, though Alistair caught him.

"Yes, '_hah ha' _very funny," The warden snapped, brushing past him to get to breakfast. He didn't look like he had slept well.

Clyde gave a sigh at his companion's irritation. Kneeling where he'd set the kettle, the warrior grabbed two small bowls that fit easily within his palm. Pouring tea into both of them, he set the kettle aside. A cup of tea seemed a reasonable peace offering to the warden.

"Here," Clyde said, offering one of the bowls to Alistair who hesitantly accepted it. Waiting a moment as the templar swirled the black brew around in his cup wearing a befuddled look, Clyde raised his bowl slightly in toast. "Cheers."

Bringing the cup to his lips, Clyde drained its contents in one smooth gulp. Alistair, mimicking him, swallowed half a mouthful before gagging on the black drink and breaking into a fit of coughing.

"Maker, that's _awful_!" The templar wheezed, tea dribbling from his chin. "How can you drink that?!"

"It's an acquired taste," Clyde confessed softly. Admittedly, even he found elfroot tea to be chokingly bitter. He'd been introduced to it as an adolescent and had developed a taste for the invigorating black drink. Still, he didn't drink the stuff for the flavor.

Alistair moved to the fire, dumping what remained of his drink into the flames and setting the cup on the mantel.

A new voice spoke. "While I am not opposed to a fanged beast dragging Alistair from his bed, I do wish it would do so quietly."

Clyde turned to find Morrigan standing behind them with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. She looked less severe in the light of the fireplace, her raven hair let down to frame her pale face and sleepy, half-lidded golden eyes staring back at him.

"Good morning," Clyde greeted, stepping aside as she moved to the pot of oatmeal by the fire. Setting his empty cup beside Alistair's on the mantel, he turned to the warden.

"I expect Leliana will be returning to us shortly. What's your plan to deal with the Assembly?"

The templar rolled his shoulders, as if he were about to lift something heavy. "By the sound of things, both sides are pretty deeply entrenched. We'll have to tread lightly or I fear we risk miring ourselves in dwarven politics."

Clyde nodded. "I agree."

The young Cousland may've never ruled Highever as Teyrn, but politics was a game that he'd played his entire life. Provided things weren't too different in Orzammar from on the surface, then perhaps they'd win their support for the Grey Wardens yet. "The wardens are well-regarded among dwarves and that's the only leverage we've got here. Approach Harrowmont and Bhelen—see which is most agreeable. I'll work my way around the city and try to get a feel for things. There's a tavern in the commons, we can meet there in a few hours and hash things out."

Leliana returned with the supplies a short time later and after it had been packed away the party split up and headed out into the city. As they had planned, Alistair went with Leliana and Dog to the Diamond Quarter to deal with the Assembly more directly while Clyde headed into the streets with Morrigan in tow, though the warrior had little expectation that she would be of any utility.

Still, the black-haired followed behind him at a distance as he walked, surveying the city around them with a constant look of disgust as Clyde went between the market stalls that had been erected on the sides of the city's main thoroughfare. As luck would have it, the merchants were happy to accept Fereldan silver and Clyde tucked his purchases—a sewing kit, a hunting knife, and a handful of other small things that would be of use—into the satchel slung over his shoulder for safekeeping.

He walked the streets with a light cloak draped over his shoulders, concealing the sword at his hip and offering only occasional glimpses of his silver armor. He wanted to draw as little attention as possible during his excursion into Orzammar, even if he stood half again as tall as most of the populous.

When Clyde paused in front of a fruit stand, Morrigan groaned. "I am curious it we are to accomplish _anything at all_ or if you simply wished to go shopping, because I saw a _lovely _pair of boot buckles that would suit you."

The young nobleman grinned wolfishly at the apostate. Passing some coin to the stout woman on the opposite side of the table, he pulled two golden apples from the basket and threw one to an unamused Morrigan.

"So tired of civilization already?" He asked, taking a bite of the crisp, yellow fruit in his hand. "I thought you could stand to learn a bit more about it, having beeen raised in the Wilds and all."

The witch surveyed the market with a haughty look. "I know all that I wish to of men and their society."

This drew a throaty laugh from Clyde which Morrigan repaid with a sharp look.

In truth, Clyde had been hard at work all morning but found it amusing to think that the woman thought him capable of nothing more subtle than bashing down a door.

He had learned much of Orzammar's politics during their walk. He'd dawdled at a stall buying leather for the grip of his sword to overhear the conversation the grey-bearded dwarf selling it was having with the merchant beside him about Harrowmont. He was from a well-respected house and politically was a traditionalist—and Clyde figured that there was no tradition older among dwarves than killing darkspawn. Still, the dwarves had long been shut away from the troubles of the surface, and if the old noble relied upon traditionalist support in the Assembly, they might balk when he called for troops to send to combat the Blight.

Another group of merchants spoke in hushed tones to one another about Bhelen—he was royal blood, but there were black whisperings of betrayal and assassination. Clyde was familiar enough with the type. Bhelen taking the throne might be dangerous for the stability of Orzammar, but he'd likely seek allies and might prove pliable if he thought he could win the endorsement of the Grey Wardens. It wasn't an idea that sat well with the youngest Cousland, but it might be the more viable route.

He took another bite of his apple and glanced to Morrigan, "Come on, Alistair will be waiting for us."


	5. Chapter 5

"Well, this is…quaint." Alistair remarked, surveying the room as Clyde took a hesitant sip from his mug of ale. Immediately spitting the dark brew back into his tankard, the noble pushed the drink aside.

The pair were situated at a table in the far corner of Tapster's, a bustling tavern in the city commons and the air was heavy with the smell of stew bubbling on the fire and the pungent odor of dwarven ale. Alistair had been delayed speaking to nobles in the Diamond Corridor and had arrived to find that Clyde had secured a table separate from the others, leaving them out of earshot of most of the other patrons. Sten had emerged from the estate after spending most of the morning there and now stood sentry nearby. The giant, leaning against a column with his muscled arms folded across his chest and the top of his head nearly brushing against the low ceiling, satisfied Alistair that their conversation wouldn't be interrupted.

"I met with Lord Harrowmont and spoke to one of Bhelen's lieutenants," The warden began, tearing a chunk of bread from the loaf on the table and taking a bite. The morning of running around amongst the dwarven nobility had left him famished and he was glad to finally have lunch. "Both 'welcome the Grey Wardens' endorsement' but seem determined to get some legwork out of us."

There was the sound of rustling mail as Clyde shifted in his seat. "Nothing too strenuous, I hope?"

"Both want me to take part in a Proving in a day's time." Alistair answered, lifting his mug of ale. He drank a mouthful to wash down his bread and narrowly avoided spraying it in the face of the human warrior sitting opposite him. The stuff tasted like they had scrapped it off the walls. Swallowing with a remorseful expression on his face, he pushed the tankard to the far corner of the table.

"A tournament?" Clyde repeated, ignoring the templar's gagging. "That could work in our favor."

"That's what I thought," Alistair nodded, taking another bite from his chunk of bread. "But who do we support?"

Clyde shrugged, resting his elbows on the rough wooden table and folding his hands. "The populace doesn't seem to support one side or another. I imagine some of the merchants have a favorite, but to the rest it's just more squabbling from the nobles."

"So you don't think there'll be a civil war?"

"If Orzammar has its king? I'd wager not. But if this deadlock remains," The noble paused ominously, a grim expression on his face. "Orzammar has been in decline for a long time. These dwarves all seem determined to die in their hole and if the nobles decide to fight over who's in charge, they all might well get their wish."

Alistair made no reply to the bleak prediction, instead choosing to turn and watch an armored dwarf take several tottering steps toward the exit before colliding with the doorframe. Steading himself against the timber pillar, it seemed for a moment as though the stout drunk might make another attempt for the exit before the intoxicated warrior stumbled several steps backward toward the corner. Giving a loud belch, the dwarf unceremoniously collapsed into an unconscious heap on the floor. Judging by the lack of attention the other patrons gave the spectacle, the warden assumed it was a regular sight.

"We'll play it by ear, then." Clyde resolved, realizing no decision would be coming from Alistair. "Was there anything else?"

After taking a moment to think, Alistair nodded. "We need to take out the Carta's operation in Orzammar."

The noble's expression darkened and he gave an exasperated sigh. "Right. Who better to hunt down a secretive underground network of powerful criminals than the group of people least capable of blending in with the populous? And who wanted us to do that, exactly?"

The warden gave an apologetic smile. "Both of them, actually."

"How convenient." Clyde groaned.

"I don't suppose we can just ask around? Think they're in the city directory?" Alistair joked, giving a slight smile. For his part, Clyde didn't seem particularly amused.

"No," He replied irritably through gritted teeth, sounding as if he were lecturing a young child. "I don't imagine they are."

With a heavy sigh, the man slackened in his seat and took a moment to rub at the dark rings beneath his eyes. Recovering himself, the undersized wooden chair gave a long creak as he rose.

"I'll take Sten and the dog and see what I can find about the Carta." The young lord declared, adjusting his cloak. "We'll be back at the estate before nightfall."

"And what am I supposed to do?" The warden asked, sounding somewhat disapproving of the arrangement.

Clyde turned and departed without answering, drawing a deep scowl from Alistair. Letting the noble pass, Sten glanced to the warden before following, leaving him by himself in the corner of the tavern.

* * *

Clyde Cousland was a man who could admit when he was wrong. As a boy, his mother and father had taught him the value of a keen mind and an honest tongue. So he could confess to having been thoroughly surprised to find a group of Carta thugs shaking down the first shop the party had ducked into.

The criminal enforcers—seven, by the human's count—turned to face the door when they entered and there was a momentary silence as both sides exchanged surprised looks. After a few seconds, the dwarf who had had the shopkeeper pinned to the wall at knifepoint spoke first.

"Jarvia don't like no witnesses. No surfacers, neither." The stout crook growled, a wooden pipe wedged in one corner of his mouth. "Kill 'um."

Dog leapt forward before they could draw their weapons, falling upon the nearest foe and digging his teeth deep into the flesh of the dwarf's upper arm. With a quick tug, the mabari jerked the screaming thug from his feet and onto the stone floor. Another criminal rushed forward to aid his comrade as the hound tore his throat but was caught in the chest by the upward swing of Sten's massive greatsword, lifting him from his feet and sending him sideways into a shop table. Stepping forward to meet the knife-wielding crook that had come his way, Clyde slammed the front of his shield into the dwarf, driving the thug back a few paces.

Having rapidly lost two of their number, the Carta brigands retreated to the far side of the cramped smithy. Most were unarmored and clutched only a dagger or small axe in their soot-stained hands, clearly unprepared for any sort of opposition.

Clyde fell in line beside Sten, careful to give the qunari plenty of room to maneuver his oversized blade. Dog stalked up between the two warriors, blood rolling off his chops in thick beads. The hound snarled as it advanced toward the crowd of thugs, bared teeth glistening in the flickering torchlight.

The remaining dwarves paired up and began to advance as well, with the exception of the thug with the pipe between his lips whose mace still hung from his belt as he watched the skirmish with a look of surprise and terror from the farthest wall.

The thugs fared no better the second time, though one of the dwarves had nearly driven his dagger into Clyde's back before Dog had seized him by the throat and shaken the hapless criminal around until his neck broke. On the other side of the shop, Sten had overturned an armor rack and cleaved a shelf off the wall while dispatching the pair that had come for him, and the qunari stood surrounded by scattered wares and splintered pieces of wood.

"Sten," Clyde called as he sheathed his sword. Waiting for the giant to glance over, the warrior indicated the remaining thug. "We need him alive."

The qunari gave a nod and stomped toward the alcove where the dwarf had retreated. Seeing the towering swordman approaching, the criminal struggled to pull the mace from his belt with trembling hands.

"Stay back!" The thug cried in a shaky voice, the weapon quivering as he held it overhead. "Stay back! I'll- "

He was cut off by a _thump _as Sten smashed the pummel of his sword into his forehead, followed by the sound of dwarf tumbling to the floor in a limp heap and Clyde grimaced, hoping the qunari hadn't inadvertently killed their only source of information. Fortunately a moment later the thug gave a loud snore.

Slinging his shield over his shoulder, Clyde grabbed the unconscious dwarf by one arm and, with Sten's help, began dragging him toward the door as the shopkeeper emerged from his hiding place.


End file.
